


Don't Leave Me Hanging

by Lasgalendil



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Awesome Sam Wilson, Bucky With The Good Hair, Hostage Situations, Interrogation, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Sam Wilson, Podfic Welcome, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson is So Done, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Torture, Up all night to get Bucky, murderkitten
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-07 12:59:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6805675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Can you move your seat up?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>It's not the first time Sam Wilson and the Winter Soldier haven't seen eye to eye...and it's not the first time Bucky Barnes has made himself a giant pain in Sam's ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

According to Steve Rogers, James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes was a poor lost little fluffy kitten he’d had as a kid…and Steve was only trying to bring him home.  
  
But if Samuel Thomas Wilson had learned anything since that fateful day jogging the National Mall, the world according to Steve Rogers was usually dead fucking _wrong_. Because the Winter Soldier? Yeah. Less a frightened kitten and more some feral tom who’d seriously fuck you up if you got too close. Oh, and the thing about cats? Stray ones particularly? They didn’t like it when you chased them, and they sure as hell didn’t come when called.  
  
So far, Cap’s strategies had oscillated somewhere between coax it in gently with a saucer of milk and chase it headlong into _oncoming traffic_.  
  
…needless to say, neither strategy had been particularly successful. Oh, and putting up flyers? How ‘bout no, motherfucker, seeing as the ASPCA was out to euthanize on sight and the local neighborhood fucktard was a psychopath bent on recapturing and terrorizing it. And the neighbors? Let’s just say the neighbors we’re still pretty opinionated about kitty hacking up a hairball all over Washington D.C., not to mention the great litterbox fiasco of November 22nd, 1963 where kitty shat on an entire country.  
  
So, no. In the two years since The Winter Kitten went missing, Sam Wilson had only glimpsed him once.  
  
Upside down.

…hanging from a ceiling.  
  
Sam woke up with the world’s worst hang-over and everything was spinning, no, wait, fuck, the world WAS spinning and there was a fucking mech warrior with a goddamned bowie staring at him with his freakish murder eyes.  
  
_Oh, shit_. Sam thought. Then—  
  
_Goddamnit, Steve. This is what you got for trying to rehabilitate HYDRA assassins._ On a good day, Sam Wilson was a VA Counselor who was all about reconciliation. But today? Given his current predicament? The kind you save, his ass.  
  
“Wilson. Samuel Thomas,” the Soldier said in its freakyass robot voice, like English wasn’t its native language, or else its vocal cords were all rusted and needed Dorothy to bring some goddamned oil. “58th Pararescue. Alias: Falcon, The.”  
  
“Who wants to know?” Sam shot defiantly.  
  
“Ally of Avengers, The. Known associates: Rogers, Steven Grant. Confirm identity.”  
  
The room was still spinning and all the blood was rushing down to his head. He had a mofo of a headache, that’s for sure, and this dude was speaking _Klingon_. “Man, what do you want?”  
  
“Insufficient intelligence.”  
  
“Oh, man,” Sam groaned, stopping his twisting and letting the swinging grow still. “You and Cap both.”  
  
But Murderkitten wasn’t impressed. That bowie knife got close enough to give Sam a shave…and not his face. “Confirm identity.”  
  
“Alright, alright, alright!” Sam squawked as the blade brushed his testicles through the inadequate protection of his Captain America cotton PJ pants. Sure, they were a joke. But they were hella comfy, and Sam Wilson didn't have to take your judgment, son. “I’m the motherfucking Falcon! You happy?”  
  
“Error. Motherfucking Falcon not recognized.”  
  
“For an emotionless killing machine you’re a real smartass, you know that?” Sam leveled.  
  
“Confirmation required,” the Soldier frowned.  
  
“Yeah,” Sam said, “or what?”  
  
“Appendages will be removed.”  
  
Yeah. And dude wasn’t talking about fucking _fingers_. Sick bastard. “I’m Sam Wilson. The Falcon.”  
  
“Identity confirmed. Mission proceed.”  
  
Sam had a bad feeling about this. “Yeah, and what that might be?”  
  
“Interrogate. Obtain information. Information required: location of Rogers, Steven Grant.”  
  
“Location of Rogers, Steven Grant. Right, then. Listen, shithead, you’ve got a knife to my balls and me hangin’ upside down from a ceiling. Like I’d fucking tell you.”  
  
The Soldier frowned. “Compliance will be rewarded.”  
  
“Man, you didn’t just drink you are _drowning_ in that HYDRA koolade.”  
  
The Soldier was undeterred. “Order through pain.”  
  
“Shit!” Sam panted as the bowie found its way under his left thumbnail. “Rumlow really did a number on you, huh?”  
  
“Location of Rogers, Steven Grant.”  
  
“Nope,” Sam said, tight-lipped, sweat leaking into his eyes. “Not gonna happen.”  
  
And that was when Samuel Thomas Wilson learned what denailing meant.  
  
“Oh, you little shit you did not!” Sam shouted as blood gushed from the exposed bed . “I’ll never fucking tell you, you sick psycho! Go on and kill me! _You’d better pray Cap’s never finds out about this—_ “  
  
But Murderkitten backed the fuck off. Made a gasping, grating noise.  
  
“I do.”

It took Sam far too long to realize. The Winter Soldier was _crying._  
  
Okay. So that was definitely not the response Sam was expecting.  
  
Then—  
  
“You mean to tell me you’re not all murderkitten right now?” Sam groaned. “ _And you fucking did all this anyways—_?”  
  
“What. The. Hell,” the Soldier growled through ugly sobs. “Is a Murderkitten.”  
  
“I’m lookin’ at one.”  
  
Murderkitten did an exercise in glowering silence. For a homeless-looking white guy streaming snot, it was pretty damn impressive.  
  
“Look, man, I get it,” Sam soothed, absolutely 100% fucking done with supersoldiers for the day and absolutely 100% unable to drop his mother hen act for one damn second even for his own good. “You had to make sure I wasn’t HYDRA or something. No harm, no foul. Didn’t need that fingernail anyways. I might've done the same."

Muderkitten just made ugly cry-face and ugly cry-noises.

"I got his back, okay, man?" Sam continued a littany of consolation until that awful sound of sniffling stopped. “You gonna untie me now?”  
  
Murderkitten said nothing. Murderkitten didn't so much as blink.  
  
And that was when Sam Wilson knew he was wholly, entirely, royally fucked. “Man, I fucking hate you.”  
  
“Steve needs someone on his six,” the man formerly known as Bucky Barnes said, rifling through Sam’s suitcase. “Right now it can’t be me.”  
  
“Oh, so you want me to explain that to him?” Sam snarled. “‘Gee, sorry, Cap, I had your best pal and let him go’. You know how _dead_ my black ass would be?”  
  
 Barnes only shrugged. “Don’t tell him.”  
  
“Hey— _hey!_ That’s my wallet!” Sam protested.  
  
 Barnes ignored him. Pocketed the cash. Pulled out a clean ball of Sam’s socks.  
  
“DO NOT LEAVE ME HERE,” Sam shouted as he understood what exactly Barnes meant to do with those socks. “Motherfucker you DO NOT LEAVE ME HERE.”  
  
“Stop following me,” Barnes commanded.  
  
“Don’t you do it!” Sam twisted away, sending himself spinning again. “Goddamnit Barnes don’t you fucking do it!”  
  
“Here,” Sam felt rather than saw the bowie slip into his own grasp. “You should be able to get free in half an hour or so.”  
  
Sam just glared. “Where are my wings, motherfucker?” he asked as the gag got shoved unceremoniously between his teeth.  
  
“FEDEX,” Barnes walked away without a second glance.  
  
Then— “Don’t tell Steve.” And he moved the ‘do not disturb’ sign to the outside of the door.  
  
“Fuggu!” Sam snarled through a mouthful of silk/wool blend socks. Current predicament in a shitty motel aside, Samuel Thomas WIlson was a master in the art of treat yo self.  
  
And oh? Those knots? Try _three fucking hours._ Murderkitten definitely needed a lesson on safe words and proper bondage techniques before his reunion with Steve. ‘Cause this right here? Not cool, man. Not fucking cool _at all._


	2. Chapter 2

The problem with cats, Sam Wilson thought, was that cats were fickle assholes who did what they wanted. So if a Murderkitten beat Captain America within an inch of his life then dragged an unconscious Steve Rogers out of the Potomac then disappeared off the face of the earth (seriously, had TNJBB gone to fucking _Asgard_ —?) for two years without a trace, well. Son of a bitch, Sam had said under his breath a hundred thousand times, and also, could you really blame him?

But then Murderkitten stopped his possibly suicidal radio silence and went on a killing spree at guess what, the fucking UN headquarters in Geneva where 117 countries were gathered to sign the Accords, including some of his best friends, thank you oh-so-very-much, asshole. He’d hoped it’d be enough for even Steven Grant “He’s My Friend” Rogers to see straight (not likely), but once again, Sam was sadly mistaken.

“You sure you’ve thought this through,” Sam asked.

“He’d do it for me,” Steve mused stubbornly.

“1945, maybe,” Sam shrugged. “I only ask because people who shoot at you usually wind up shooting at me.” And that was that. Cap didn’t put up much of a protest. Two years ago, maybe, Sam, I can’t ask you to do this. Nowadays dude pretty much took it for granted. And, totally honest, Sam didn’t know if it made the guy even more a self-righteous pain in the ass or whether it was fucking awesome that someone like Cap would consider him such an unquestioning friend. So Sam would wait. See how the mission panned out…and then decide if he was pissed or not.

But that’s when Sharon “I’m Her Niece Sorry I Sorta Spied on You And Maybe Overheard You Masturbating to Your Dead Friend And/Or My Ninety Year-Old Aunt” Carter showed up with intel. And that, as the story goes, was that.

So that’s how Samuel Thomas Wilson found himself unwillingly in Bucharest, chasing down a Murderkitten who may or may not not remember jackshit, may or may not be working for HYDRA, and who most certainly didn’t want to be found all before, you know, the collective sovereign governments of the world outright murdered him. Oh, did he mention dude was the longest serving POW and a WWII era war hero? And that a free Europe pretty much single-handedly owed their current existence to Sergeant Butterfingers Barnes and the suicidal stupidity of Captain Can’t Fly a Plane Rogers? And the last time kitty’d been caught he’d had Sam declawed? Yeah. Okay. So Sam was _definitely_ pissed.

But Steve was his friend, damnit, and while lying about Barnes had been for his own good before, well. Now it was time to fess up to the truth.

“Eagle, before you go in there—“

“Falcon?”

Sam sighed. “You might not like what you find.”

“I have to help him. Regardless of who he is now, he’s my friend.”

“He might not know that, Cap. Just be careful.”

"Use call signs when on the comms. Will do. Rogers.”

 _Oh, you son of a bitch_ , Sam thought. He just got Cap-punked!


	3. Chapter 3

The problem with cat rescue and evac in an area where you didn’t have jurisdiction, Sam mused, was that no force on earth could compel the damn cat to come with you. That was also the problem with cats anywhere, Sam thought bitterly, especially if said cat happened to be the notorious James Buchanan Braindamaged Barnes. Because, brother, _kitten be crazy_.

Kitten had just tried to bomb the UN. During the Accords. Fine, Sam would just come out and say it: Kitten had just tried to kill Steve Rogers. Again. You’d think that’d be the sort of thing to freak a guy out a little, but nope. Steve Self-Sacrificing Idiot Rogers was convinced kitty’d been put up to it, or provoked, and wasn’t a murderous ball of spitting rage under all that fluffy hair. And yeah, it was fine, whatever, dude had totally been low key hitting on him and Sam was more than down with that (and would’ve been happy to go down _on that_ ) until Bucky With The Good Hair showed up on the freeway and Sam had been relegated to the friendly neighborhood queerplatonic/homoromantic bff with the occasional eye fucking all in the time it took to ask ‘who the hell is Bucky’. Because Sam had seen the look in the man’s baby blues when he talked about Barnes, and dude was definitely lovesick, not to mention channeling something small, fuzzy, and completely fucking harmless rather than a metal-armed assassin.

Not that Sam minded. It wasn’t like Murderkitten had stolen his man or anything…dude had called dibs about seventy years previously, and Paul and Darlene Wilson hadn’t raised no homewrecker. But yeah. Just _you_ try thinking you’ve got a shot with Steven Grant Dem Sculpted Abs/Dat Ass Rogers then try ever moving on.

But even if it weren’t for all the Murderkitten mayhem, Sam Wilson was a good bro and would’ve rescued Sharon “Oh God Is He Stalking Me” Carter from Steve “I’m So Lonely Let’s Just Talk Some More About Peggy” Rogers. It had nothing to do with jealousy. Okay, it had a bit to do with jealousy. Or a lot. Maybe everything. Samuel Thomas Wilson wasn’t above being a little bit possessive of That Ass even if That Ass wasn’t his. Don't expect him to apologize, he didn't feel sorry at all, and his momma hadn’t raised no liar.

So Bucharest. Alright then. Nevermind they’d been playing _here, kitty, kitty_ for two whole years now, and the last time kitten got cornered he’d lashed out like a motherfucker. Yeah. To be honest? Sam didn’t have a hell of a lot of hope this time’d be any different.

But what the Winter Kitten didn’t know was that this time the neighborhood fucktard had sicced his pack of pitbulls on him with an order to kill. And right now? Right now Sam Wilson had a pretty damn good view (he wouldn’t say bird’s eye, that sort of shit dad joke was entirely Barton’s) of them circling in…and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Would Sam like to see kitten get what’s for? Hell, yes. He’d shine a laser light at the thing himself for the sick pleasure of watching him try to figure it the fuck out. Sam’d tease him with the smell of catnip and tuna and then not give him a damn thing, son. Sam might even give kitten no few less-than-necessary baths, lock him in his crate and feed him nothing but dry cat food. But watch him get torn apart by a pack of dogs? The eighteen-sixties weren’t all that long ago and Sam was still black, even if his momma said he talked like a white boy. So how ‘bout a whole lot of _oh hell no_.

“German special forces have surrounded the building, Cap,” Sam called out a warning. Bunch of dudes in black with black SUVs and why the hell was black always the color of sinister bad guys—(he asked rhetorically, as a black guy breaking international law and sanctions to aid and abet a fugitive Murderkitten)? Seriously, though, Disney. Sam could use a break.

Except the guy Steve was talking to over the comms didn’t sound like the raging homicidal Murderkitten at all. For one, dude was pretty fucking lucid, and pretty damn chill to boot, more so than Sam would be had Captain America appeared in his flat in all his Star Spangled Glory. But he also didn’t sound like childhood friend and likely fuck-buddy Bucky Barnes.

“Buck. Do you know who I am?”

“You’re Steve,” that tentative voice said. “I read about you in a museum.” Okay, so that wasn’t what Sam was expecting. One, he hardly recognized Cap, and two? Two there were no sounds of rabid sex humping so okay, then. He owed Nat fifty bucks.

Then Steven Grant Subtlety Rogers called bullshit in the most roughed-up sex voice Sam’d ever heard. “I know you’re scared and you have every reason to be. But you’re lying.”

…well, okay then. _Definitely_ fuck buddies. This wasn’t going to go nearly as bad as Sam'd feared it would. No, it was going to be much, _much_ worse. Because if Natasha Romanov told the collective governments of the world to kiss her ass a few years ago, then Steven Grant He’s My Friend (With Benefits) Rogers would _hand theirs to them._


End file.
